I walked last night to a place of flaring darkness, where bone faces, shining, turned to follow my silent steps. I walked last night in a country of the blind: all loveless textures, caught by a crude sculptor of mountains. I walked last night through the turning of a book and gained clear sight by the closeness of the words. I walked last night in a flow of frost, deep blue ice and light-fractured crystal, yet felt no fear of the cold. I walked last night with the will of others. and returned to this morning, waking immobile and grey.